Scattered
by purrpickle
Summary: H.G. has to acclimate to not only a new world, but to her reinstatement as a Warehouse Agent as well. Then, when she gets injured on an artifact run, circumstances ultimately conspire to force her to confront her growing feelings for Myka... Femslash.
1. Chapter 1

**Full Summery: **H.G. Wells not only has to acclimate to this new time, but to her role as a reinstated Warehouse Agent as well. Of course, most of the Warehouse has rallied behind her (we can count Artie out, hmm?), but when she gets injured on an artifact run, circumstances ultimately conspire to force her to confront her growing feelings for the lovely Myka Bering. (Not hurt/comfort.)

**A/N:** I don't own Warehouse 13 nor the characters within. This has been hanging out on my hard drive for about four months now, being worked on periodically. I waffled about posting it or not (as it's not finished, and I already have many in progress projects), but I realized what good would it do, keeping it to myself? As well as I'm awfully proud of this story. Also, it would continue the process of sucking myself back into the fandom, so yay. Enjoy~

* * *

It had been a successful artifact retrieval. Though H.G. managed to get herself thrown out of a window, she'd only suffered minor damage due to quick thinking and her ever-present grappling hook. Pete, who had been assigned as her partner for that particular mission, had immediately clapped his hand on her shoulder and complimented her on superb Bat-Girl skills. A little miffed at being compared to a dreadful flying rodent, H.G. almost let him get thwacked on the head by the man they were chasing who had hefted Genghis Khan's bow as a club - almost. She tripped Pete to move him out of the way instead. Then, in neat execution, she spun around and fired her grappling hook at the bad guy's head, knocking him out cold.

"Dang, H.G." Pete stood up, brushing off his jacket, "You're a crack-shot! You'd give Annie Oakley a run for her buffalo nickels."

"A run for her – no, never mind. I assume that's another charming American colloquialism. Or an attempt at referencing Buffalo Bill's Wild West, hmm?" H.G. arched her eyebrow as she knelt down to pick up the bow after slipping on her bright purple gloves, studying it.

"Heyy, at least you knew who I was talking about," Pete grinned at her, then went to check on the still unconscious man. Though he had a giant purpling bruise on his left temple, he'd live. Pete winced in sympathy.

H.G. sighed, trying to figure out how they were going to manage keeping the bow safely away from accidental contact until they could find a containment bag big enough to hold it. She stood up, carefully keeping it away from her. "Yes, Agent Lattimer. One of my first missions with Warehouse 12 involved traveling to the American West to retrieve Davy Crockett's coonskin hat. As I recall, the Wild West show was quite exhilarating."

Pete's mouth dropped open, and he turned to H.G. "You… Nahh. …Really?"

H.G. rolled her eyes upward, nodding at him. It was both amusing and tiresome reminding her colleagues that she had, indeed, lived during the latter part of the 19th century. "Now," she turned her attention around the room of the high-rise office to change the subject, "Help me find something to wrap this up in."

Later, after the bow was safely placed into an appropriately sized containment bag and Pete got back his jacket, H.G. stood in the bathroom of her hotel room, rubbing liniment cream into her arms, wrists, and shoulder joints. Crashing through a window and subsequently being jerked to a sudden stop mid-air and slamming side-first into the side of a building was certainly not her best move. But Artie's report had been dangerously absent of the information that Genghis Khan's bow, when drawn back, unleashed a strong force that sent whatever facing it hurtling backwards.

And H.G. had ever so conveniently offered herself up as a target.

She pursed her lips at herself in the mirror, giving herself an 'Are you proud of yourself now?' expression over her shoulder. Annoyingly, the mirror responded by showing her that she hadn't managed to cover all the muscles in her back with the strong smelling ointment.

H.G. blew air out of her mouth. She wouldn't normally hesitate to ask Pete to help her out (H.G. _did_ very much appreciate the relaxing of sex propriety that had happened in the past 110 years, and she'd have no qualms exposing her bare back to the agent), but apparently the request of help slathering lotion on one's back was now considered a prelude to courtship. And though Pete had not been a bad kisser, H.G. did not wish to revisit her first betrayal of the Warehouse 13 agents. Of course, even if she had not been adverse to it, the happenstance of Pete's Kelly and H.G's…Well, it was of no matter.

Deciding she had done as much as she could under the circumstances and her quickly stiffening muscles, H.G. started rubbing the cream into her left side. Hissing as her fingers hit a tender spot just below the swell of her breast, she was once again thankful that nothing had been hurt badly. Broken or fractured ribs were terribly nasty things to suffer through; during her last mission with Warehouse 12, H.G. had been sent out to Transylvania in search of a rumored Vlad III, Prince of Wallachia artifact, and all she had collected for her troubles was a vicious beating at the hands of occupying Hungarian soldiers. She had been lucky to escape with her life and a modicum of scars.

When she thought she had done as much as she could, H.G. washed her hands free of the remaining liniment and started gently dripping water over the scrapes above her left eyebrow and along her cheekbone, washing away dried blood and some torn skin; she hadn't been as successful at protecting her head as she would have liked. "Helena," she murmured to herself, closing her eye as water ran over it, "That was close. Too close."

She sighed and pushed herself from the sink, blinking the water away. Already feeling her muscles start to pull and tighten, she knew the best thing for her to do would be walk outside and find the machine that held ice somewhere down the hall. However, she was loathe to make herself presentable enough to leave the hotel room; falling into bed naked sounded much nicer.

Though the liniment certainly had already started working, H.G. had to bite her lip and stifle some groans on her way over to the bed. Ice be damned, she thought rebelliously, laying down. A bit firmer than she liked, but that should be good for her muscles, and she'd probably not sink so low as to not be able to get up again.

H.G. stared up at the ceiling. Almost 110 years stuck in bronze, and here she was again, only her thoughts to keep her company. She started to feel pain creeping into her side, and she shifted, trying to find a comfortable position. Ice and pain medication – H.G. would gladly sell her soul for those two things if she hadn't already lost it decades ago in one of the feverish dreams that made up her imprisonment.

Suddenly, a beep split the silence of the air, and H.G. shifted her head slightly to look at the bedside table. A red light flashed on her cellular phone. Groaning, H.G. shifted a little to the left and picked it up. An amazing little contrivance.

Claudia and Leena, unexpectedly, had been the ones to give H.G. a speedy education on many of the technological wonders that had utterly mystified her upon release. While Claudia rattled off fact after fact with many foreign and fantastical sounding words, Leena wrote down notes to discuss with her later in a hands-on fashion.

Some things had been easier to understand than others – for instance the electric iron. While aware of its patent and invention in 1882 by American Howard Seeley, H.G. had not used one herself due to the impracticality of its function. But kerosene irons she was proficient, and once Leena had shown her how to turn on the modern iron, it really wasn't too much of a strain to figure out. Pete even slipped her a couple of dollars here and there if she pressed his suits for him. H.G. didn't mind too much. The simple act of ironing allowed her to regain some sense of normalcy.

When she had been introduced to the cellular phone, H.G. had understood the practical application fairly quickly. However, the science behind it and the reality of all that it could achieve (apparently especially by ones of fruit or berry or humanoid robot), had horribly confused her upon first lesson with Claudia and Leena. Nevertheless, once Leena had convinced Claudia that H.G. did _not _need a cellular phone that had… apps? …things had gone much more smoothly. The cellular phone H.G. held now only had call and written word capabilities, and it was quite satisfactory.

Flipping up the screen, H.G. noticed she had three envelopes and one telephone symbol. Clicking on the text messages first, she couldn't help the smile that pulled at her mouth. Apparently Claudia had found something H.G. _had _to see, so she was supposed to finish the artifact retrieval quickly and get her butt back home. Leena wondered if there was anything specific H.G. would like to have upon her arrival back at the bed and breakfast, as well as let her know that the package H.G. had sent for had arrived. That was nice to know; it would be much more enjoyable to write with her fountain pens back in her possession. The last text was from Myka. Almost sitting up before she remembered that she was in pain, H.G. opened it.

Oh, how very, very endearing. Upon H.G. and Pete's arrival back in Univille, a month would have passed since her reinstatement, and Myka was suggesting having a Warehouse celebration. (H.G. knew the real reason for celebration would be that she hadn't given the faintest hint of artifice, and Artie hadn't found a reason to re-bronze her. Warehouse politics hadn't changed much in 110 years.)

Deciding to save responding for later, H.G. put the phone to her ear after pressing and holding the button that would allow her to check the message left for her. Pete's voice soon spoke into her ear and H.G. ignored the sharp disappointment she experienced at his first word.

It turned out that Pete had called while H.G. was in the bathroom. He was sorry to miss her, but if she felt up to it later, he knew the best pizza place in Manhattan. She should come. They even had old school arcade games, like Pack Man and Space Invaders. They were simple enough that even shewould be able to play them – not that she wasn't smart or anything – heck he always figured her as some sort of genius – but they were good stepping stone games. Or, if she wanted to shoot things, English Annie Oakley that she was, they had House of the Dead as well. Or pin ball, always fun.

H.G. smiled wistfully and erased the message. House of the Dead and Pack Man sounded strange, but if pin ball was anything like Bagatelle, that would have been fun to try.

Perhaps Pete hadn't left yet. Typing in his number, then typing it in again after remembering to start with the Univille area code, H.G. lay back against the pillows and listened to the ringing noise. His answering message greeted her ears, and she groaned, flipping the phone closed. There died her plan of commandeering him for ice mule.

H.G. stared up at the ceiling again. Pete was one thing, but she did not savor the idea of a hotel employee being privy to her weakened state. She tried calling him again but received the answering machine.

Feeling the dull ache in her side flair up as she shifted to lie on her right, she bemoaned Artie's belief that she not yet be trusted with a Farnsworth. Pete always made sure he had his on his person. It would be incredibly simple. But alas, she had no Farnsworth.

She burrowed her head into the pillow, marveling once again at how nice the sheets and bed linens smelled. When she had been on her own, only rarely had H.G. been able to find somewhere so clean to spend the night. It hadn't been her proudest three days and nights, indeed, when she had camped out in the English countryside in order to scout out the manor of her cousin Isabel (poor Izzie, of whom H.G.'s brother hadn't been the most faithful husband; H.G. had always thought Izzie too good for Herbert anyhow). And even then Isabel's house had only kept two of H.G.'s secrets – three out of the five caches she had hidden in the walls had been discovered some time ago.

It had been surprising the number of small caches she had squirreled away that _had_ weathered the test of time, but she was no less thankful for it. Some had been demolished or discovered, of course, but enough had survived undisturbed to afford her a comfortable amount of money and security, grappling hook included. However, it had been the truth that her funds had been running out around the time she had followed Artie, Pete, and Myka to Russia, the flight ticket and hotel rooms extravagances she had barely afforded. If they had not taken her back to the Warehouse with them, H.G. had even begun entertaining the notion of waltzing right into Leena's Bed and Breakfast and throwing herself at their mercy, outcome be damned.

A loud beep near her head startled her, and H.G. was temporarily confused until she realized she had been falling asleep. Quickly pinpointing the beeping coming from her phone close to her head, she rolled slowly onto her back and flipped it open. Reading 'Myka' flashing on the screen, H.G. smiled. She stifled a yawn and got into the most comfortable position she could, answering in a low sleep-filled voice, "Yes, darling?"

Silence. H.G. frowned, opening her eyes to glance quickly at the phone. Assured it had the green glow that meant the call was still active, she tried again, "Myka?"

"Oh, uhm, I'm sorry. Hi. Did I wake you?" Myka's voice was an instant comfort to her ears. It had only been three days, but when it came to Myka, H.G. found she preferred having at least an hour per day in the other woman's company. And hopefully more than that.

"It's quite all right, dear. Dozing, really. Now, how may I help you?"

"I was just calling to see how everything went. Artie told me that you and Pete had successfully retrieved Genghis Khan's bow, and…"

H.G. smirked. "And since normally you work with Pete, and I you, you were checking up on us as if we were two wayward children."

Myka laughed, "Something like that. So? How was it working with Pete without me being there?"

Quite lonesome, she wanted to reply, but bit her tongue. Flirting was best done in person. "Agent Lattimer was a perfect gentleman," she replied diplomatically.

"I bet. Just do me a favor and don't tell him that you called him that. His ego's already inflated too much as it is."

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

H.G. could hear Myka's smile. "Please don't do that. If you die, I'll be the only female agent left at the Warehouse again."

"That would be insufferable, I presume."

"Very."

"And Claudia would not count because…?"

"She's still an agent in training."

"Ahh. But one day she won't be."

There was silence on the other end of the line, and Myka's voice came out slow and measured, "It wouldn't be the same."

A warm feeling spread through H.G.'s chest. "Then I shall do all I am able to stay alive."

"Thank you."

Both of them were quiet as they allowed the heavy moment to pass.

"Myka," H.G. started, drawing out Myka's name slightly.

"Yes?"

She closed her eyes. She would be a sentimental fool if she allowed the words she wanted to say to cross her lips. So, instead, to give herself time to stall, she painfully sat up, fluffing the pillows behind her so she could lean back against the headboard. In doing so, the bed sheets pooled around her waist. Looking down, H.G. chuckled to herself. What would dear Myka think if she knew she was naked?

Saving that thought for a later, more appropriate time, H.G. shook her head and smiled, an idea coming to her. "Myka, dear, do you have your Farnsworth on you?"

"Uhm... Yes. I do. Why?" Obviously, that had not been what Myka was expecting.

"Oh, splendid. Would you be ever so helpful and call Pete for me?"

"Pete?"

"He is not answering his phone, and I need him."

"Need him?" Myka sounded even more confused than before.

"Yes, dear. He can do something for me I cannot do myself."

Myka was silent for a moment. "Please, _please _tell me you're not talking about what I'm thinking you are," she entreated. Her voice sounded disturbed.

H.G. paused. She grinned, swallowing the undignified bark of laughter that threatened to come out, "Why, Myka, whatever do you mean?"

"I'm not going to answer that."

"Mmm. One does not always need another, darling."

It sounded like Myka choked.

H.G. smirked. Really, Myka was too easy. "Do you need explanation?"

"…I am not talking to you about this."

"Unless something has changed in the past 110 years. Perhaps I _should_ talk to someone about this. And if you are not willing…Would you rather me talk to Leena? Or young Claudia, perhaps? I'm sure one of them –"

"_H.G._!"

Ahh, there was feisty Myka. "Yes, darling?" she asked innocently.

Myka took a deep breath. Instead of the indignant tone H.G. expected, her voice instead came out almost thoughtful, agreeing, "You know what? I think you're right. You should talk to someone. After all, it _has _been 110 years, and I'm sure things have changed a lot from what you're used to."

H.G. blinked. She pulled her bed sheet up. "What do you suggest?" she asked, trying to mask her surprise, but ruined it by wincing and letting out an audible groan. When she had pulled up the bed sheet, she had used her left arm; it almost immediately let her know it wasn't happy. "Ah, I apologize, Myka dear," she cleared her throat, glaring down at the mottled bruising that had started spreading over her skin, "But I'm hoping this conversation can wait. Would you please call Pete?"

"Are you okay?" Myka asked quickly, her voice full of concern.

H.G. took a deep breath. Muscles had an annoying habit of stiffening while the body wasn't moving. "Well, I'll live, I suppose." Knowing she needed to say more but reticent to divulge the extent of her injuries and how she had gotten them – she didn't want Myka to worry – she tried to come up with a suitable response. "I just had a… Spot of trouble with the retrieval, that's all. I was hoping Pete could pick up some things for me."

"H.G., you should have said so earlier!" Myka sounded scandalized, "Hold on a sec."After a couple of seconds where a faint scrabbling noise was heard, Myka spoke again, "Okay, I've got my Farnsworth. You sure you're okay? Calling… Pete… Now."

"Yes dear, I'm fine. No need to worry."

After a beat, Pete's small, tinny voice came over H.G.'s phone speaker, but she couldn't quite make out what he was saying.

"Pete? Pete, hi. Why don't you have your cell phone turned on?"

H.G. chuckled. Of course Myka would start out swinging.

"Pete! _Seriously_? You – what – I can't even… It better be worth it, that's all I can say. But I'm not letting you off the hook just yet. Look – yeah. Yes. H.G. did. What? _No_! Pe-ete, no, no! I don't want – fine. _Fine_. Okay, Pete, enough! H.G. wants to talk to you. Here."

There was a noise that was probably Myka shoving the Farnsworth against her cell phone, fed up with her partner's excuses. It certainly would have been entertaining being able to hear both sides of the conversation.

Crackle. "Is that you, H.G.? You look surprisingly like a cell phone. Did'ja get a makeover? Can't say it suits you."

H.G. smirked, shaking her head. "Adorable, Pete," she drawled, "Having fun?"

"Oh, yeah! Definitely. You up for joining me? Pizza and video games – you can experience the college lifestyle without actually having _gone_ to college. Oh, and minus the vomiting. The homework. And waking up naked strapped to the flagpole with permanent marker scrawled across your forehead that… Okay, too much information, Pete. Don't need to relive that. What's up?"

"…While I'm not sure what was completely relevant in there, I must admit that I am disappointed I cannot join you."

"Oh?" Pete sounded disappointed himself, "You're turning down the chance to bond with your partner? I'm hurt. What if I told you there's _five dollars_ in tokens in it for you? Huh? Yeah, _five whole dollars_. You heard me."

H.G. sighed. "I wish I could join you, truly, but I'm a little tied up here. Little mess with a very unfortunately placed window…"

"Ahh…"

"Yes." She nodded. "So you see."

"I do."

"Good."

"…Okay, no I don't. I just said I did to make you assume I saw. Did it work?"

She rolled her eyes. "Regardless if you understand or not, I am in need of some first aid supplies and would greatly appreciate it if you brought me some ice as well."

"You okay?"

H.G. smiled. People in this time certainly were more vocal about their concern. Or perhaps it was a habit associated with Americans? Whatever it was, it was a nice change. If she didn't get burned out by it, of course. "I'm fine, dear. I've had worse." How many times would she have to repeat that?

"Okay, good. Ice. Got it." It sounded like Pete had pulled out his notepad and was starting to jot down a list, "Anything else in particular you want?"

H.G. sighed happily. Hopefully in less than an hour, she'd be on her way to getting patched up and pain free. Wrapping up her list – ice, aspirin, some muscle specific ointment, plus a couple of other sundry goods – and informing Pete that she _had_, in fact, gone to college, though it had not involved vomiting of any sort (H.G. decided it wasn't worth it addressing the naked part of his speech; she'd, ah, had some wild school days), Pete signed off with a promise of bringing the pizza and video games to her. Somehow. H.G. was admittedly looking forward to see how he achieved that.

As soon as Pete beeped out, Myka reclaimed her phone. "_Window_?" she said accusingly, "Did I hear you correctly?"

H.G. winced. She'd been hoping Myka wouldn't have heard that. "I have no idea what you're talking about," she said lightly.

"Ahuh." Sounding suspicious, but letting it go, Myka sighed. "Look, I'd really love to chat more, but Artie's been on the warpath lately, and I'm supposed to be on inventory duty. I really shouldn't leave Claudia by herself much longer, either."

"Alright, darling," H.G. shoved down the disappointment she felt. She was a grown woman, and she could handle being Myka-free for the foreseeable future. "I should probably start getting decent for Pete's visit, as well."

"You do that." H.G. heard Myka mumble under her breath, "_Decent_?", but kindly did not acknowledge the question. Let Myka think what she will. H.G. smiled.

Myka took a deep breath, "Hey, before I go, did you get my text message?"

"About the party?"

"Yes."

"I'd be absolutely honored, Myka. You're quite the charmer, and I doubt I'd be able to say no." H.G. said happily, a hint of flirting slipping out before she could stop it.

"Well, I don't know about that," Myka sounded embarrassed, but H.G. could still hear the smile in her voice, "But I'm sure you'll try to convince me later. Talk about this tonight?"

"Certainly." H.G. smiled. And, before she could stop herself, "Myka?"

"Yes?"

Myka sounded so sweet H.G. couldn't get the words out. "…Oh, never mind. I'll save that for later. Have a good day, dear. Thank you for your assistance."

"It was no bother." There was silence, then, "Take care, H.G."

"You too."

And with a soft click, Myka hung up. H.G. sighed, resettling against the headboard, looking up at the ceiling. In a bit, she knew she'd have to get up and slip some clothing on, not wanting to give Pete a free show. But for now she'd rather bask in the contented feelings the phone call had given her. She definitely wasn't looking forward to the difficulty moving around would be.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **I own nothing of what is mentioned in this chapter.

* * *

When Pete showed up at her hotel door pizza box, plastic bag, and stuffed animal laden, H.G. had to take a minute to take him all in. Accepting what looked like a strangely purple bunny, she took a step back to free up the doorway, frowning confusedly at the plush thing in her hands.

Walking past her, Pete slid the pizza box onto the table, hoisting two plastic bags up next to it. Turning around with a boyish grin on his face, he whistled. "H.G., I gotta say, purple and red are not your colors. I'd say you're more of a winter? Summer? Leena would know." When she frowned at him again, he pointed at his eyebrow.

"Oh. How kind of you to notice," she said sarcastically, "Did they teach you tact at that college of yours?"

Pete shrugged, grinning. "Nope, not on the syllabus, unfortunately. Besides, I was too busy chasing sorority girls, booyah." He waggled his eyebrows.

Not surprised in the least, H.G. shook her head, wished she hadn't, and walked stiffly over to sit in one of the chairs the hotel provided. Taking her hint, Pete pulled out his own chair. "Seriously, though," he lowered his voice, "How are you? Should I take you to a doctor?"

H.G. patted his hand. "I'm quite alright, I promise. I give you permission to take back this… Lovely little thing you have so kindly given me if it turns out I am wrong."

Pete puffed out his chest proudly. "That fine specimen of craftsmanship you hold in your hands, H.G., I'll have you know, is worth… Drum roll please," he cupped his ear, ostensibly waiting for some kind of response. When H.G. looked at him blankly, he sighed, "You're like Chip to my Dale, little chipmunk. You have much to learn." Without waiting for an answer, he drummed some kind of melody with his palms, hitting the table top, "Two hundred and fifty tickets, baby! Who's the winner? Huh? Ooh, ooh." He started dancing in his seat, doing a variation of his favorite victory arm movements.

H.G. smiled in solidarity, shaking her head. "Assuming that's something to be proud of, I congratulate you heartily. Much appreciated."

"Oh yeah, many many tokens went into getting you that, H.G. You _should _be thankful. His name is Mr. Bunnykins, by the way. Mr. Bunnykins, H.G. H.G., Mr. Bunnykins."

H.G. raised her eyebrow, then slowly placed 'Mr. Bunnykins' on the other side of the table, closer to Pete. "I'm convinced we shall be good friends. Now, if you'll excuse me," she moved to pick up the two plastic bags, but Pete shook his head and retrieved the fuller one. "It's for later," he smiled at her.

"I see. Alright." Smiling faintly, H.G. stood up and shambled as proudly as she could into the bathroom, acutely aware of Pete's concerned gaze on her back.

"Let me know if you need any help," he called out as she closed the bathroom door, "I promise I won't look!"

H.G. smirked. "And both Myka and Kelly would harm you if you did," she mumbled, clearing her throat and responding loudly, "Offer noted."

"Okay, good. …Hmm. Should I set it up now or crack open the pizza…?" Pete started muttering to himself, and H.G. tuned him out.

She took a moment to breathe deeply, hands resting on the bathroom counter. Her side did _not _like all the moving she had been doing, combined with the earlier putting on of a loose buttoned down shirt and pajama shorts Leena had so nicely given her when she had arrived at the bed and breakfast. Ice would have been _heavenly _an hour ago, but at least she had it now in the shape of artificial ice packs she could see through the plastic material. In quick order, she took everything out of the bag, placing the items onto the counter.

A tube of something called IcyHot, aforementioned ice packs, a half empty package of some sort of sweets called Gummi Bears (H.G. rolled her eyes – Pete was nothing if not consistent when it came to eating his 'gifts'), aspirin, a couple rolls of binding, another tube of ointment called Neosporin, and a box of varying sizes of… H.G. furrowed her brow. Scooby-Doo Band-Aids? Pete must have gotten that partly for Claudia, whom H.G. had heard mention this 'Scooby-Doo' before. She mentally shrugged and set the box aside for later. Cupping her hand under running water, she swallowed two aspirin tablets. Better to do that first thing so it would kick in sooner.

Taking one last look in the mirror, frowning at how red and purple her face _had _gotten around her left eye, H.G. decided against fully disrobing. Unbuttoning her shirt at a slower pace than normal, she picked up the IcyHot. After reading the instructions and making sure it was the correct product to use, she started to rub it into her skin. She smiled; it tingled pleasantly, though the smell was a little too intense for her nose. Managing to cover most of her strained muscles, she decided it was almost a pity she shouldn't ask Pete to help her. He was like a puppy, eager to please, and he _had _offered, but… H.G. just couldn't.

Deciding to leave the ice packs for later, she turned her attention back to her face. Well, the scrapes were scabbing, which was good. Hopefully they would heal without leaving any scars. Quickly realizing that IcyHot would not help her, she picked up the other tube and gently applied it, staring intently into the mirror. Aside from the scrapes, H.G. paused, one corner of her mouth lifting, she looked remarkable for being a supercentenarian. She should remember to thank Claudia for teaching her that term when she got back.

Turning her attention to the ice and binding (which on closer look seemed to be called something like ACE), H.G. quickly realized that she was going to have more trouble than she had previously predicted. Looking at the ice packs, then at the ACE, then down to her side and left arm, she sighed.

"Pete," she called, pushing the bathroom door open enough to lean her head out.

"Yeah?" Looking up from the table where he had seemingly just opened up the pizza box, Pete blinked, a slightly panicked expression crossing his face, "You… You really want my help? I mean, sure, but, H.G. I like you and all, really, but I…"

H.G. chuckled, shaking her head, taking a step outside of the bathroom to show him that she had buttoned her shirt back up. "It's quite alright, Agent Lattimer," she drawled, "I will be fully clothed. Your virtue is safe with me, I assure you."

"Well, alright then. As long as you don't tell anyone!" he stipulated, waiting until she nodded at him, hiding her grin. Rubbing his hands together, Pete walked over to her, smiling, "What would you like me to do?"

Pretty quickly, H.G. and Pete managed to secure the activated ice packs against her side – _over _her shirt, Pete was happy to find out – by wrapping the bandages tightly around her upper chest and torso, working around her stiff arm and breasts. H.G. got great amusement out of the blushes and nervous mumblings Pete produced during the procedure, smiling wickedly at him with her eyebrows raised any chance she got. Concentrating on his embarrassment certainly helped her ignore the majority of the discomfort, though she was chagrined to admit that a couple of pained gasps escaped her mouth.

Standing back and straightening, Pete walked around her in a circle, studying their work. Satisfied, he smiled proudly at her, "Looks pretty good, if I do say so myself. Though…" He frowned, studying her face. "H.G.!" he grabbed the discarded box of Band-Aids, opening it quickly and pulling out a couple of small paper-wrapped items, "You didn't put any of these on." Before H.G. could reply, he had already sorted through the ones in his hands, pulled out certain ones, torn open the paper, and affixed brightly colored cloth-like… bandages? …to her face with their sticky ends, covering her abrasions with a surprisingly gentle touch.

"Oh. So _that_'_s _what those were," H.G. mused, turning to look at herself in the mirror. She couldn't help but blanch at the comical looking dog that practically jumped off of her face in a variety of patterns. Still, Pete looked so pleased with himself that she figured the loss of dignity was worth it. …Just as long as she took them off before Myka saw her, of course.

Ahh. The coolness was seeping through her skin, the makeshift bind working; she only hoped it wasn't too late and practically useless. Following Pete out into the main part of the hotel room – she pretended not to notice him swiping the bag of Gummi Bears off of the counter – she headed straight for the table, careful as she sat down. Pete handed her a paper plate and napkin with a flourish, sliding the pizza box so the part that opened faced her, lifting the lid. The smell of grease and cheese and tomato sauce hit her nose.

H.G. frowned. "What is this?" she asked, making the wide smile on Pete's face falter, "This is not the pizza _I _know."

"What?" Pete looked down at the offending circle of cheese and meat and various vegetables, brow furrowed. "Okay, first of all, I didn't even _know _you knew what pizza was," he raised his hands in a placating motion when she glowered at him, then shook his head, "But regardless. What's different about it?"

She waved at the pizza with her right hand, "The… The absolute drenching of cheese, for one thing. I'd heard about it in Italy, of course, but…" Staring down at the white topping, she grimaced, "I never had the _privilege _of trying it myself."

"Really? That's, like, what _makes _pizza!"

H.G. ignored him, studying the 'modern' pizza. Her stomach was growling fiercely, and once she got past the oily sheen the pie had, it _did _look somewhat appetizing. Noticing the change her expression must have had, Pete pulled out a triangle-shaped wedge and slid it onto her plate. He grinned at her.

H.G. glanced around the table. "If I am to _enjoy _this delectable morsel," she started, reaching for the plate and pulling it towards her, "Where is the cutlery?"

"What?" Pete blinked at her.

"Knife. Fork. With which to eat."

Seeing Pete mime picking up a slice and eating it with his hands, she looked furiously back and forth between him and the pizza on her plate, horror dawning, "You cannot surely expect me to… _This_? With my _hands_?"

Pete smiled. "It's part of the experience, H.G. 'Sides, how did you eat your 'hoity-toity pish-posh' pizza back in the day?" Still seeing the uncertainty on her face, he sat back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head, a look of practiced indifference on his face, "I'm sorry to say we are all out of utensils today. May I suggest the alternative?"

"Which is?"

Pete sat forward again, smiling, "Using your hands."

H.G. groaned. Seems if she did not want to starve, she'd have to make do without silverware. Slowly, still not quite sure what she was getting herself into, H.G. picked up the piece of pizza, wishing she had use of both arms when it sagged a little in her hand. Getting a better grip on it, thankful the bottom crust prevented her from _feeling _the grease, she took a tiny nibble of the pointed end.

Flavor exploded on her tongue, and she stared at Pete, taking a bigger bite, this time with some peppers and meat in it. "Well," she declared, setting the piece down so she could wipe her mouth with a napkin, "It's not so bad."

"Score!" Pumping his fists, Pete shoveled three pieces onto his own plate, devouring the first one in quick, enormous bites. "Hey, the pizza'd been _taunting _me the whole way over here!" he explained when H.G. shot him a mildly disgusted look, "And I'm a growing boy."

"The only thing that's growing is your waistline," H.G. muttered, picking up the pizza wedge again.

"What?"

"Nothing," H.G. took another bite.

"Ohhkayyy… I'm too hungry to get indignant, so you're lucky, young lady!" Pete wagged his finger at her. The effect he was going for was ruined by the tomato sauce smeared on his cheek.

H.G. chuckled. "Young lady. I see. This supercentenarian thanks you for the compliment."

"Super… Wha?"

"Ask Claudia."

Pete narrowed his eyes, picking up his third piece. Staring intently at her, he took a big bite and chewed, swallowing noisily. "Don't doubt I will," he threatened emptily, retrieving another piece for H.G. when she finished her first one.

H.G. smiled, nodding. She handed Pete a napkin, laughing when he wiped everywhere _but _the place he had the tomato sauce. Her side twinged, but it was bearable, even if sitting constricted her midsection. As long as she could breathe and eat, she was happy.

Finishing off her third piece, H.G. was full (Pete after seven). There were still a couple of pieces left, and Pete placed it into the complimentary refrigerator, assuring her that cold pizza was well regarded as a suitable breakfast. Then he pointed her to her bed, telling her to take a seat on the end so he could clean up and set up what he had brought. Eager to see what it was, H.G. did so without complaint.

Dropping everything into the trash and picking up the bag he had previously denied H.G., Pete walked over to the hotel television, looking it up and down. Apparently finding what he was looking for, he pulled out what looked to be a black control box of some kind, two white buttons and a red lever on the top of it. Taking a cord and attaching it from the control box to the side of the television, Pete turned it on and fiddled with the channels. Pretty soon, _Retro Arcade Pac-Man _showed up on the screen in big, block letters, a strange yellow creature underneath it. With a victorious 'ahah!' Pete threw her a wide grin and started pushing buttons and moving the lever on the control box in his hands, making what seemed to be control menus flash across the screen. H.G. leaned forward from her seat on the bed to get a better look.

"I _told _you I'd bring the video games to you!" Pete crowed happily, walking over to sit next to her on the end of the bed, pushing the control box into her hands, "And see? So retro it should be a piece of cake. …Ohh, cake…"

H.G. stopped studying the clunky box to shoot him an unbelieving glance. "You're hungry already?" she asked, looking back down, experimentally moving the lever up and down, side to side, raising her head to see something that blinked on the screen match her movements, jumping from word to word.

"I always have room for cake!" Pete protested, then reached over and pushed the white button labeled 'A' a couple of times. The television let out a couple of beeps, informed them that the game Pac-Man was selected, and a grid filled with yellow dots and white labyrinthine lines appeared. "Alright!" he pointed at the screen animatedly, "See that little yellow guy?"

Startled at how quickly Pete seemed to be shoving her into the game, H.G. squinted at the screen, "The… half circle that appears and disappears?"

"Exactly! That's your little Pac-Man. In a bit, he will solidify, and then you are to use that joystick," Pete poked at the red lever, "To move him around so he can eat his yellow food pellets. And fruit."

H.G. tilted her head. "Is that a… Cherry?"

"Yup yup. Ohp, time's up. Move! You don't want the ghosts to catch you! That would make Ms. Pac-Man quite sad if you got ated by a ghost."

H.G. thought about admonishing him for his bad grammar, but Pete gestured wildly at the screen in exaggerated motions, suddenly yelping and shaking her shoulder as some kind of red… blanket with eyes started to blink into existence behind her yellow half circle. Even if that by itself hadn't spurred her into action, Pete's wild grab for the control box convinced her that if she indeed did not move her Pac-Man and avoid the ghost, her partner would steal the game and never give it back to her. Experimentally pushing the joystick down and then left, the Pac-Man went down and left, a strange 'waka waka waka' noise coming from the speakers.

She managed to avoid the ghost by doubling back and slipping around one of the handy box walls, and, with Pete's encouragement and animated commentary, quickly got the hang of the game. She'd never tell, but slipping up behind the ghosts and eating them before they could eat her really _was _quite exciting.


End file.
